


The Second Job

by Josselin, phoenixflight



Series: The Second Job [1]
Category: Ocean's Eleven Trilogy (Movies), White Collar
Genre: Caper Fic, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Heist, M/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 15:47:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19930546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Josselin/pseuds/Josselin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixflight/pseuds/phoenixflight
Summary: The job was good; the job was perfect. They had the buyer, they had the way in, they had the way out--the only thing missing was a forger.Rusty was eating a shrimp taco. Pieces of shredded lettuce and cheese fell out of the wrapper and miraculously missed landing on Rusty’s suit.“There’s always--” Rusty said, taking another bite of the taco.“He’s good.” Danny agreed.“But--.”“The thing,” Danny agreed. “We could--” Danny continued, raising an eyebrow, and Rusty swallowed the last bite of taco and licked his fingers, nodding in agreement.“I’ll call Mozzie.”





	The Second Job

The job was good; the job was perfect. They had the buyer, they had the way in, they had the way out--the only thing missing was a forger.

Rusty was eating a shrimp taco. Pieces of shredded lettuce and cheese fell out of the wrapper and miraculously missed landing on Rusty’s suit.

“There’s always--” Rusty said, taking another bite of the taco.

“He’s good.” Danny agreed.

“But--.”

“The thing,” Danny agreed. “We could--” Danny continued, raising an eyebrow, and Rusty swallowed the last bite of taco and licked his fingers, nodding in agreement.

“I’ll call Mozzie.”

_____

“...never had a problem before,” the gallery manager was saying. “Do you really think there’s a danger to the de Kooning?” 

Neal tuned out Peter’s reply, glancing around at the other works. The Bureau had been keeping an eye on this particular showing of private pieces for months now. Neal questioned the taste of anyone who wanted to steal a de Kooning, but money was money on the black market. 

Behind him, the door to the gallery opened, and a pimply teenager in a delivery jacket poked his head in. “Macron’s Pizza and Bar, delivery?” 

The gallery manager was already looking frazzled. “Nobody ordered pizza.” 

“Says right here, Suite B, first door on the left after the lobby fountain.” The boy waved a flimsy print-out. “Directions were specific. This isn’t Harison’s Antiques Limited?” 

“No, this is Harson’s Fine Art. Harison’s is around the block, easy mistake.” The gallery manager turned back to Peter. “So you were saying, the surveillance on shipping days--”

The delivery boy frowned at his paper. He had a logo of a slice of pizza and the word Macron’s blazened on his jacket. 

Neal’s phone rang. “Yeah?”

“You’ll never guess who just called me,” Mozzie said. 

“I’m sure I won’t,” Neal drawled. “I’m at work, is this urgent?” 

“My directions were specific.” The phrase made Neal glance over his shoulder in the direction of the glass doors but the boy was gone. “Rusty Ryan says he wants to talk to you, Sunday afternoon at 1, told me you’d know the place.” 

Still gazing out into the bright afternoon light, Neal nodded slowly. “Yeah, I think I do.” 

______

They brought Linus along, because Linus liked leadership opportunities, and because Linus was hilarious. Neal thought so too, Rusty could tell from the way he rose one eyebrow at Linus when they came in. Rusty grinned at him, chewed on the fruit rind the bartender had put in his drink, and slid into the booth next to Neal, stretching his arm out along the back of Neal’s shoulder.

Danny and Linus sat down across from them.

“Caffrey,” Danny said.

“Ocean,” Caffrey nodded back.

“Neal, this is Linus Caldwell,” Rusty said, gesturing across the table at Linus.

Linus nodded seriously at Neal. “Nice to meet you,” he said politely.

“Likewise,” Neal said, smiling earnestly, and if any of Neal’s charm wore off on Linus it could only do the boy good. 

They made small talk about nothing long enough for Linus to get antsy before Neal brought them down to business. “So what brings you to New York?”

Rusty just grinned across the table at Danny.

“Oh,” Neal said understandingly. “A Persian courier.”

Danny nodded. “We’re just missing a victory musical.”

Neal nodded, considering. Danny obligingly pushed his glass and remaining orange slice across the table. Rusty plucked the piece of fruit out of the glass and ate it as well. 

“Local?”

“No travel,” Rusty agreed.

Neal turned his head to look at Rusty head-on. “Obviously you know about about my...situation.”

“Yep,” Rusty agreed.

“You’re working for the FBI,” Danny said.

Neal and Rusty nodded; Linus looked shocked. “What? Seriously?”

“We can take care of it,” Danny said.

Neal nodded. “Was it in the drink?” he asked.

Rusty smiled at him, almost sweetly. “You saw?” he said, slightly disappointed. “I thought it was good.”

“Oh, it was,” Neal assured him, his pupils wide. 

“But you’re better,” Rusty finished.

“So you’re in?” Danny asked perfunctorily. Linus needed to work on his poker face; he was baffled and showing it.

Neal just smiled. “Left leg, five minutes.” He was fading fast, listing against Rusty’s side. Rusty supported him subtly.

Linus was losing it. “What the hell is going on?” he whispered to Danny, who shushed him with a hand.

“Just--” Neal was slurring a little bit now, “Watch the suit, okay?” 

“Sure thing,” Rusty assured him, and from there it was simply a matter of guiding his tipsy friend out to the car. Linus followed, looking uncertain. Danny settled their tab.

_________

Peter didn’t start investigating until Monday, when Neal was not ready to head to work at 7:30, and was not in fact at June’s at all. 

June didn’t know where Neal was. “I thought he was with you,” she said, with the perfect amount of frowning confusion. 

Neal didn’t pick up his phone. 

Peter followed his tracker to a suite at Bryant Park Hotel, where he did not locate Neal, but did find Neal’s tracker hooked up to an elaborate circuit that apparently had the US Marshals fooled, right next to a tidy stack of Neal’s cell phone, FBI credentials, wallet and ID.

Peter had a terrible feeling about the entire situation and had since he had shown up to get Neal and hadn’t found him sitting with a cup of coffee. The worst part of all of it was that no one was going to believe it but him.

He showed Hughes all of the evidence later that morning before he headed to the restaurant, and the skepticism began.

“You have to admit, Peter,” Hughes said, “that it is possible Caffrey simply left. He figured out a way to remove the anklet without alerting us, and he took advantage of it.”

Peter didn’t buy it. “But why now?” he said. “If Caffrey really had this all figured out, why now? And why like this? Why not leave on a Friday night rather than a Sunday morning with fewer hours to count down before we would notice? It’s just--it’s not like Neal,” Peter said earnestly.

Hughes had his hands folded in front of him.

“I’m going to retrace his steps,” Peter continued. “If I’m wrong, and he did run--then maybe that will provide insight into why. And if I’m right, it might be the only way to find out anything about who might have taken him.”

The tracking data put Neal at a pizzeria on the upper west side of Manhattan before heading directly to the hotel where his anklet had been ditched. 

Macron’s Pizza and Bar was a dingy little place that served alcohol all day and didn’t have security cameras. Peter flashed a picture of Neal at the bartender, but he shook his head. “Wasn’t working yesterday, sorry.” 

Peter gritted his teeth. “Who was?” 

The bartender jerked a finger toward the kitchen and Peter went to grill the busboy. 

“Yeah I remember. Four of them. Just ordered drinks, no food. Your friend was pretty drunk when he left but I’m pretty sure he only had the one.”

Peter’s stomach knotted unpleasantly with the thought of Neal drugged. “Did he seem upset? Worried?” 

“No. Seemed like he knew the others. But I wasn’t watching close, I was in the dishpit most of the day. I just remember them because it was slow, they were practically the only people in here.” 

“Describe the other three,” Peter growled, and wasted more time taking notes as the boy described three white men between 20 and 40. 

After he’d left the pizzeria, he called Mozzie. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Suit?” came Mozzie’s voice over the line. 

“Where’s Neal?”

There was a pause. Was it a suspicious pause? Peter couldn’t tell. His hands were sweaty where he gripped the phone. 

“Given that it’s a Monday afternoon, I’d say slaving away for the man. But given the aggressive tenor of this call, I presume he’s not with you.” 

“His tracker was removed in a hotel yesterday afternoon,” Peter said. “If he ran on his own, I assume he would have told you. Not that you’d tell me.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“Suit, if I had something to hide from you, do you really think this number would still be operational?” He could practically hear Mozzie’s eye roll. “You think Neal’s in danger?” 

“Kidnapped,” Peter grunted, and that hurt just to say. “Three men, I’ve got descriptions, no footage yet. Witness said Neal seemed to know them, so I assume you’d know them too.”

“Not necessarily,” Mozzie said. “The criminal underworld can be larger than it seems but I’ll do some digging.” 

“Good.” He ended the call and dialed Jones. 

“Jones. Do you have the footage from the hotel lobby yet?” 

“Yes, boss. Low quality, no face shots. It’s definitely Neal, he comes in at 2:13 with a white man in a baseball cap, leaning on him pretty heavily. Not under his own power.” Peter’s heart squeezed under his ribs. “Leaves again at 2:38 with the same man, still semi-conscious. Room was paid for in cash, everything was wiped. No prints, no DNA. Professional job.” 

Peter let a breath out slowly, trying to stop his hands from shaking. “I need to see that footage.” 

_____

Neal woke slowly, head pounding. His mouth was fuzzy, and his stomach unsettled. He rolled to one side, squinting in the light through hotel curtains. 

“Aspirin,” Danny said, mattress dipping as he sat beside Neal. 

“Rohypnol?” Neal croaked, taking the aspirin and the glass of water. 

“Low dose.” 

“How long?” He drank the water slowly. 

“Only a couple of hours. We’re on a timeline.” 

“Of course.” Neal shoved himself up against the pillows, waiting for the room to stop swaying. “You’ve got supplies?”

“Yep. Oils and acrylics.” 

“Modern art?” Neal made a face. “That was cruel of you. So, tell me what I’m going to be working on.” 

Danny tilted his head to one side and looked toward the window. Neal narrowed his eyes. “It’s a little less straightforward than we may have suggested,” Danny admitted. 

Neal’s brain was not operating at 100% and the room was still swaying a little, but he’d known Danny a long time, almost as long as he’d known Rusty. “What’s the second job?” 

Danny smiled, pleased and knowing. “We’ll show you.”

______

The hotel security footage was only 720p, which meant that Peter’s instinct to keep enlarging it and watching it again just left him with a blurry and pixelated view of Neal leaning on some other man, and no additional answers.

Neal had his arm wrapped over the other man’s shoulder, and the man had an arm around his waist. Neal was leaning heavily against the other man, who kept his head down as he walked Neal across the lobby. Neal stumbled a bit over the rug, and then when they hit the elevator, the man nodded at Neal to press the button (to avoid fingerprints, Peter assumed) and it took Neal two attempts to do so.

The man didn’t have any kind of visible weapon. If the other two men involved at the bar were around, there was no way to pick them out from the other guests and staff milling around the lobby. Neal seemed to be visibly out of it--drugged, presumably--but he wasn’t fighting or making a fuss. The street or the lobby would have been the place to do it, Peter thought, before the tracker was off and before they had Neal alone in a hotel room. The pizza place had been almost empty, so perhaps Neal didn’t think it was his best venue to make a fuss, but there were other people in the hotel lobby. Did they have something on him? A weapon Peter couldn’t see? Some kind of threat or leverage to make him cooperate?

Or was this all part of one of Neal’s plans?

Peter had seen Neal fake being drunk before, when he put on wide eyes and a slightly ebullient look as a role, and then cast it off as soon as he was finished. Neal could probably fake being drugged, too, if he thought that would leave his options open. 

He switched footage to them leaving the elevator. Their backs were to the camera. The line of Neal’s pant leg disguised that the tracker had been left in the hotel room. Neal seemed even more out of it, his head lolling slightly before resting on the other man’s shoulder. 

The other man’s body language was perfect. It didn’t say “threatening kidnapper.” It said, “Helping my drunk friend,” to a T, from the way he adjusted his pace to Neal’s and the curve of his head to check on Neal while they walked.

“Mozzie’s here,” Diana said, leaning into his office. She was frowning at him. 

Peter sat back from the monitor, pausing the video, and fought for his composure. “Right. Take him to the evidence room.” 

“I hope that you take my willingness to set foot in the inner sanctum of government surveillance as an indication of the seriousness of my concern,” Mozzie said as soon as Peter walked through the door. 

Peter held up a hand to silence him and gestured to the circuit hooked up to Neal’s anklet--still happily broadcasting its location. It had been confiscated from the hotel. “Who do you know who could do this?” he asked. 

Mozzie leaned over the contraption, frowning. “A couple of people. Well, anyone who could have had the idea. The technology is straightforward--a high school robotics team could rig this up in an afternoon--it’s the design that’s brilliant. Ingeniously simple really, I can’t believe I didn’t think of this myself...” 

“Mozzie,” Peter interrupted. 

“I’ll get you a list,” Mozzie said hastily. 

Peter’s phone rang, and he pulled it out of his pocket. El’s name was flashing on the screen, and Peter checked his watch with a sinking feeling. “El, I’m sorry I forgot to call, I’m not going to be home tonight. Neal’s gone.” 

He heard her sharp indrawn breath. “Gone?”

“Taken. Or run. Someone drugged him, slipped his anklet. I’m sorry. This is...” 

“More important,” she finished firmly, and in the mess of worry knotting his stomach there was a warmth of love for his wife. “Is he okay?” She laughed shakily. “That’s a stupid question. You don’t know. Okay. All right. Peter, you do whatever it takes to track him down and get him back safely.” 

“Thanks, El,” he breathed. “I’ll let you know as soon as I know anything.” 

“Do that. Peter, you’ll find him. You always do.” Even faint and distorted over the phone her voice was like leaning against a sun-warm wall. “Call me when you can.” 

“I promise. Love you.” He hung up and took a deep breath. “Okay. Any leads on more footage? Traffic cameras? Adjacent store fronts? What did the sketch artist come up with?” 

______

Neal smoothed the tuxedo jacket over his chest and eyed himself in the mirror. “Did someone take my measurements while I was out, or was it just a lucky guess?” 

“There’s three things I never leave to luck,” Danny said. “Cards, horses, and fine tailoring.” He reached out to adjust Rusty’s tie and Rusty swatted him away. “You’ve got your invites, you’ve got your…” 

“We’ve got it,” Rusty interrupted. “It’s recon, when has that ever gone south?”

“The time with…” 

“Besides the time in Miami, anyway that wasn’t clean recon that was a Brando shuffle.” 

Danny rolled his eyes. “Back by eleven.” 

Rusty muttered something about curfew, and Neal muffled a laugh. It felt good to work with an exceptional team on an excellent plot, it was great, but there was something a little lonely about watching the easy partnership between Danny and Rusty. 

The suite door clicked open, and the kid, Linus, slipped inside. He shuffled his feet a little awkwardly but he didn’t wait to be acknowledged before saying, “Tip’s in place with Lincoln Security, whenever you’re ready.” 

“Not till they’re back.” Danny turned and fixed his most penetrating gaze on Neal. He had the courtesy not to say _Are you sure,_ but did say. “He’s your fed. You make the call.” 

Neal smiled back and answered the unspoken inquiry. “Don’t worry. I’m good at staying ahead of him.” 

The second job was in a multi-million dollar townhouse on the Upper East Side, where an exclusive cocktail party was in full swing by ten o’clock. The goon on the door inspected their invitations carefully, then marked their aliases off on the guest list--Danny’s preparation was impeccable, as always. 

“A Ruscha and a de Kooning, really?” Neal murmured to Rusty, as they mingled through the crowd of suits and designer dresses. “Someone completely lost their taste for good art, planning this double bluff.” The Ruscha in question was displayed in pride of place on above the ornamental mantle. In Neal’s expert opinion, it didn’t match the architecture at all. “It’s almost doing them a favor, getting rid of it.” 

Rusty snorted into his champagne flute, and snagged a canape from a passing waiter. “I’d forgotten what you’re like.” 

“Oh?” Neal raised an eyebrow. “What am I like?” 

“You care about the art more than the money,” he murmured, leaning in so his lips almost brushed Neal’s ear, his breath tickling. “Dangerous trait in a thief.” 

“But a virtue in a forger,” Neal whispered back, barely moving his lips. “Let’s get a closer look.” 

They joined the small circle of people admiring the painting. “Pop art,” Neal muttered, eyes tracing the brush strokes. 

“I like it,” Rusty said around a mouthful of caviar. 

“Philistine.” Neal patted his pocket ostentatiously and pulled out the burner phone he was using. “Gotta take this, excuse me.” Rusty circulated and ate hors d'oeuvres while Neal pretended to text and instead took surreptitious photos of the Ruscha. It was impossible to make a perfect forgery without the original for reference--too much variation in lighting and texture. But the Ruscha didn’t have to be perfect. Shouldn’t be. 

Rusty’s hand settled against the small of Neal’s back, hip brushing against his side, and Neal made an automatic check for his wallet, but he wasn’t carrying one. “Ready to go?” Rusty asked. 

“Yeah. You want more caviar for the road?” 

Rusty shook his head and patted his jacket pocket. “I’ve got a Twix,” he said, and then grinned like he knew how much it was costing Neal to not call him a philistine again. 

In the cab back to the hotel, they swapped stories about jobs, details elided out of professional circumspection as well as in deference to the cabby listening in. Neal slouched against the door, thigh pressed against Rusty’s. “I spent that summer in Prague.” 

“Never been.” 

“It’s a lovely city. Did some work with a freelancer, had some fun together. European boys, you know how it is.”

“I can imagine.” Rusty was watching him intently, eyes dark in the flickering illumination of street lights and neon. He was eating a candy bar, tongue flicking out to lick chocolate from his lips. Neal followed the movement with his gaze and let the motion of the cab rock him a little more heavily against Rusty’s side. 

At the hotel, they stepped into the elevator and faced one another. The lights were bright after the dark city streets and the back of the cab. Neal could see the faint lines around Rusty’s eyes, deeper than last time they’d been together. They were still leaning together, too close for the large, empty elevator. Rusty’s shoulder was warm against his, and there was a smudge of chocolate at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got…” 

Rusty’s lips parted slightly under his thumb, and his dark gaze was both challenge and invitation. 

“For old time’s sake?” Neal murmured, and Rusty closed the distance between them. His mouth tasted like sugar, familiar, and Neal slid an arm around his neck, pressing against his body. They kissed until the elevator dinged, and then broke apart, stepping out into the carpeted hallway. Neal was mostly hard and they were both breathing fast, watching one another. Then, further down the corridor the suite door opened and Danny’s voice said, “It’s eleven.” 

The corner of Rusty’s mouth curled up in a smile and Neal laughed, smothering it behind his hand. 

_______

“Boss? Boss.” Peter jerked his head up from his desk. Gray dawn light was coming through the windows. His watch read 5:45 am. Diana was leaning in the doorway, looking rumpled, with dark circles under her eyes. “We got a call from a private security firm. They picked up the APB we put out on Neal’s aliases. Last night someone attended a party on the Upper East Side and signed in under the name Victor Moreau.” 

Peter felt his heart rate begin to race, more effective than a cup of coffee. “Get me all the information. Now!” 

By 6:15 they had security footage from the event. Some sort of smoozy cocktail event, not art related at all, although the elderly Jewish couple hosting were art collectors. 

“Pop art?” Peter muttered into his coffee cup. Neal wouldn’t be caught dead stealing pop art. 

“There! There he is,” Diana said, pointing at the screen. Neal came in at 10:02, with another man beside him. 

“Is that the same man who was at the hotel with him?” Peter asked, leaning close to the monitor as if that would help him see anything except pixels. 

Diana shook her head. “Hard to tell, boss.” 

It was a white man, medium build, sandy hair that might have been dyed. He did look like the man who had dragged Neal into the Bryant Park hotel, but he looked like half a million other white men in New York City. His face was turned away from the camera. 

Neal looked okay, as Peter examined him carefully for signs of injury. Actually, Neal looked great, dressed in an impeccably fitted tuxedo jacket with a blue tie, at home among the wealth and luxury surrounding him. 

Peter, Jones and Diana stayed huddled together over the monitor for the next forty minutes, flipping between security tapes as Neal and the other man moved from room to room. Infuriatingly, the man seemed to know exactly where all the camera angles were, and kept his back to them. They never got a clear glimpse of his face. 

“They look like they know each other,” Jones said, voicing the thought that Peter was fighting. Diana nodded. 

It was true. From the limited visuals they had of him, the other man didn’t look like any of Neal’s associates that Peter recognized, but the two of them chatted easily, standing in one another’s space. If Peter had seen this film clip six years ago, when Neal was still at large, he would have had no doubt that the two were planning a heist together, casing the joint. Still, Neal had always looked at ease around Matthew Keller, and look how badly that had turned out. 

His heart thumped uncomfortably under his ribs, and he rubbed his gritty, tired eyes. Kidnapped… or run? 

“I’m making coffee,” he grunted, getting up. “Keep watching for a shot of that man’s face.” 

Watching the coffee percolate was not soothing but it was better than watching Neal and wondering what the hell he was doing. When he got back to the conference room with the coffee pot and three mugs dangling from one hand, Jones turned the screen toward him. “This is the clearest we’ve gotten of his face so far.” 

Putting the coffee down, Peter felt a jolt in his chest as Jones pressed play. The man turned as if he were about to look toward the camera, but he was leaning in at the same moment so that his face was obscured by the side of Neal’s head. The man whispered something in his ear, close as a lover, and it could have been a threat except Neal smiled, small and amused, and tipped his head to murmur something back; Neal was a good con man, an excellent one, but Peter knew what his genuine smiles looked like and this was one of them. The coffee suddenly felt like acid in his empty stomach.  
_____

Neal started with the Ruscha. “This is so easy it’s almost a crime to do it badly.” 

Rusty was eating Cheetos on the bed. A drop cloth and portable construction lights had transformed the other half of the room into a makeshift art studio. Neal had spent the last hour bitching about the quality of the lights, modern art, and acrylics, but he was making good progress on the first forgery. "Do you think putting 'help me Peter' in the margin is too obvious? It's not like it would lower the artistic value of this junk." 

Rusty said nothing, just munched on a Cheeto, looking at him impassively. 

“Probably a little heavy handed,” Neal sighed and squeezed more cadmium yellow onto his pallette and said, "So was it my skills or Peter?" 

The Cheeto bag crinkled as Rusty wadded it up. "Both." 

"Good to know I'm so valuable these days."

"You've certainly expanded your portfolio." Rusty leaned back against the headboard, licking orange dust off his fingers. 

Pulling his eyes away from Rusty's pink mouth, Neal wiped his brush and reached for the cup of rinse water. Fucking acrylics. "It's better than being inside." 

"You and he…"

Neal shot Rusty a dark look. "Pass me the cobalt." It was closer to Neal than Rusty but Rusty shifted up from the bed to bring it to him. It was an apology.

"To be fair, it started out as a straightforward Loose Lizzy, and you were the first person who came to mind. You need a forger in New York City and Neal Caffrey is the best, everyone knows that. Then it turned out the Bureau was already sniffing around Harson's and the rest just fell into place." 

"A golden opportunity to pull a Philbert on your crooked fence while misdirecting from the de Kooning." Neal smiled. It was a beautiful con.

Rusty smiled back. "Nice, isn't it?"

"So what did Dalton actually do? Danny wasn't specific."

"Tried to pull a Double Blind Nellie on us." 

Neal winced. Everyone knew you didn't try to pull a stunt like that against someone as smart as Danny. "Definitely too dumb to outsmart Peter, then. Peter's the best." 

Rusty raised his eyebrows. "Word on the street is that you and Peter are the best together. A scourge of the criminal class."

Looking away, Neal checked his reference images and widened the blue shadow down the side of the pink letter he was painting. "We're a pretty good team." 

"Not everyone gets lucky enough to meet a partner like that," Rusty said softly. You'd almost think he was talking to himself, except Rusty was naturally private. If he said something it was because he wanted you to hear it.

"Lucky enough to get caught?" Neal said, dry, deflecting. He leaned closer to the canvas, wrinkling his nose at the chemical, plastic smell of the paint.

Rusty shrugged. "Anything can be good luck if you're playing the right game."

_____

Danny was in the next room, mixing a drink. Rusty closed the door between the suites, leaving Neal to his painting, and crossed to the minibar. "He's fast. Should be done in two hours."

Danny dropped an olive in his martini and held out the jar to Rusty. 

"Thanks." Rusty fished one out with his fingers and popped it in his mouth, biting down on the burst of salt and oil. "The passcode?"

"Linus got it."

"So we're…"

"Good to go. Soon as the paint dries."

Rusty tilted his head at the door. "He's been complaining all morning about how fast acrylics dry." 

Danny chuckled and shook his head. "He sure is…"

"Yeah." Rusty leaned his elbows the bar. Danny's shoulder was pressed against his, warm and familiar. "You think he…"

"And the fed?" Danny made a face. "Twenty says they haven't."

"No bet. But he wants…"

"Course he does." Danny sipped his drink. "Remember…"

"Brooklyn Heights? Of course. Spring of ‘96."

"’97."

Rusty snagged the glass out of his hand and Danny let him. "Right. Cause it was after…"

"Yeah." Danny watched him as he took a sip, and Rusty let his tongue linger against his lips. "So we've got an hour…"

Rusty set down the glass with a clink. "Yeah."  
______

Peter was pacing in the living room, so agitated that Satchmo had started barking and El had shut him upstairs. Hughes had sent him home at five--“You’ve been here thirty hours, you’re no good to anyone asleep on your feet. Go home, get some rest.” 

El had refused to make him any more coffee and was instead making hot cocoa in the kitchen. 

The doorbell rang. Peter yanked it open and let Mozzie in. 

“Hello, Suit.” 

“Is that Mozzie?” El called.

Peter dragged Mozzie into the dining room and shoved him down at the table, in front of the print outs of the security footage. “Who is this?” 

“Good to see you too,” Mozzie said.

“Hi Mozzie.” Elizabeth came out of the kitchen with three mugs of cocoa.

“Elizabeth. You are a paragon,” he said as she set one of the mugs down in front of him. 

“This man,” Peter growled, tapping the pictures. “Who is he?”

Mozzie flipped through the pages. “I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know?” Peter let the threat echo in his voice. El put a hand on his arm. 

“I don’t know!” Mozzie waved his hands. “Anyone can dye their hair. He’s good, knows where the cameras are. I’d be able to tell more, maybe, if I could see the way he moves.” 

Peter grabbed the laptop and cued up the video. El leaned over Mozzie’s shoulder to watch also. “So?” he prompted, as Neal and the man moved through the party. “Do you know him?” 

“Neal knows him,” El said. “Look at how they’re standing.” 

Peter had spent the better part of the last twelve hours looking at footage of how Neal and the man were standing. He looked at Mozzie instead. Mozzie didn’t have any obvious tells, but that was telling in itself. For a man who was naturally animated and jittery he sat very still. “Mozzie?” 

“Not off the top of my head. But I know a fence who has a buyer for a pop art collection. Been making noise looking for a supplier.” 

It was an evasion, but Peter grabbed a pen anyway. “Name?” 

“Mike Dalton. Bad reputation, but people work with him because he gets top dollar from buyers.” 

“Bad reputation?” 

“Double dealing, light extortion.”

“Kidnapping?” 

Mozzie shrugged. “Maybe.” 

Peter called Jones while Mozzie finished his cocoa. “Get me everything we have on Mike Dalton.” When Mozzie had gone, Peter sank down on the sofa beside his wife. “He wasn’t telling us everything he knows.” 

El tucked her toes under his thigh, her back against the arm of the couch. “No.” 

“Do you think…” he hesitated. “Hughes thinks he went of his own accord. That he figured out how to slip the anklet and ran.”

El bit her lip. “Wouldn’t he be making more of an effort to hide if he were on the run? Not working a job in your backyard.”

Peter let out a heavy breath, curling an arm around her knees. “I can’t be sure. He still surprises me. The way he looked at that guy...”

“You sound jealous.” 

“I’m worried,” he snapped, and sighed as she raised her eyebrows. “Sorry. I’m just on edge. I don’t know if he’s in danger or if he’s run away and it’s…” He broke off, throat tight. 

“I know.” Leaning forward, she pressed a kiss against his temple. “But it’s simple, one way or the other. You track him down, get him back. That’s all.” 

“Right. Right.” He squeezed El’s hand. “That’s all.” 

______

For dinner, Rusty ordered take out from some hole in the wall in Chinatown. “Best char siu east of San Francisco,” he said as Linus drove them in evening traffic from their hotel near Washington Park. Neal still hadn’t figured out what Linus’s role in the con was, except as some sort of apprentice. And knowing the way Danny ran a Persian courier, there were almost certainly several other team members that he hadn’t met. If nothing else, someone skilled was handling tech. 

As Linus pulled up in load/unload zone in front of Emperor Xao’s Lucky BBQ, Neal kept his back to the traffic camera at the intersection out of habit. Peter would be combing every piece of footage in the city for him and he didn’t know if they had fake plates for the car. He glanced down the street in both directions and noticed a payphone booth at the far end, covered in graffiti and tattered posters. 

Rusty emerged from the restaurant laden with take out bags, smelling delicious. “Did you say Dalton’s operation works not far from here?” Neal said. 

“Yeah, South Bowery. Why?” Rusty already had his mouth full of something. Neal tilted his head at the payphone. Rusty followed his gaze, chewing slowly. “Huh. Yeah sure. Why not?” He shoved the bags in the car with Linus, and said, “Stay,” which made the kid scowl ferociously. 

Neal and Rusty sauntered to the phone booth, their backs to the traffic camera, and squeezed into the both together. “I don’t have any quarters,” Neal said. “You took my wallet.” 

Rusty dug in his pockets, unearthing two Jolly Ranchers, a squished Tootsie Roll, a handcuff key, and a handful of loose change. “Here.” He unwrapped one of the Jolly Ranchers and popped it in his mouth. 

Neal inserted the coins and dialed Peter’s cell phone by memory. Rusty was pressed against his side, rolling the hard candy in his mouth. His fingers brushed against Neal’s thigh as the line rang. “Tease,” Neal mouthed. Rusty grinned. The candy had turned his tongue pink. 

The phone clicked and Peter’s voice said roughly, “Hello?” 

"Peter." He didn't have to fake the relief in his voice.

"Neal! Where are you--are you all right?"

"I'm fine." Rusty sucked on the candy, hollowing his cheeks. Neal raised his eyebrows. "I don't have much time. Everything's okay, I just have a few things that I need to finish here, don't worry about me." Reaching down, Rusty casually cupped Neal's cock through his slacks and his voice caught on the last word.

"Neal?" Peter sounded genuinely panicked. 

"It's fine, I'm okay," he repeated, fighting to keep his voice steady as he began to get hard under Rusty’s skillful fingers. "Listen, I've got to go, just look out for my message okay?"

"Neal!"

"Don't worry, Peter. My message, remember." Rusty took the phone from his hand, hung it up, and Neal leaned in to lick the sugar and artificial strawberry taste out of Rusty's mouth. "We should go," Neal murmured after a long moment. "Peter will be here as soon as he traces the number." 

"The takeout is getting cold," Rusty agreed, and pulled a paisley handkerchief out of his breast pocket to wipe the prints off the phone. Neal leaned out of the booth and gestured to Linus to come pick them up. Linus gave them both strange looks on the drive back to the hotel. 

_______

The phone went dead in Peter's hand, and he realized he was standing in the middle of the living room, breathing heavily. Behind him, El had half risen from the sofa and was watching him wide eyed. "Is he okay?" 

Peter stared down at the unblocked number on the screen--New York area code. "I need to call the team." He ended up interrupting Jones's dinner to get an origin for the number.

"It's a payphone in Chinatown," Jones said, after only a few heavy minutes. 

"Get me all the video footage you can of the location," Peter ordered, and hung up.

"Peter?" El put a hand on his arm.

"He said he was okay. Told me to look out for his message, whatever that means. He kept saying he was fine. But he sounded...shaken. Like something was wrong. Neal wouldn’t be that obvious, he’s too good. If he really wanted me to think everything was fine, he could pull a better act than that.” 

"Peter, deep breaths.You won't do him any good if you break down." She rubbed his shoulder as he breathed. "I know you're worried, but he's a smart man, he can take care of himself for a little longer."

“I’m responsible for him! I'm meant to look out for him.” 

“Is that all?” 

Peter stopped with the words, of course that’s all, on the tip of his tongue, because he wasn’t in the habit of lying to his wife. 

El looked at him with soft, dark eyes. “It would be okay if it were more than that.” 

Peter blew out a heavy breath. Of course she knew. She’d probably known longer than he had, just like she knew about the two of them before he’d figured it out. “You’re not…angry?” 

“Darling.” Her small hand was warm on his arm. “I’ve been sharing you with Neal Caffrey for half a decade now. And I personally wouldn’t kick him out of bed.” Peter choked on his own spit, and El rubbed his shoulder. “I think you should talk to him.” 

“He’s gone!” 

“Find him, then talk to him!” 

“What if… he figured it out and ran because of it? Because he doesn’t want it?” He hated the worried tone in his own voice. 

“Or maybe, if he knew he would have stayed,” El said reasonably. “Or maybe he’s really been kidnapped. You won’t know until you find him.” 

“Right. Right. Yes.” Cupping El’s soft cheek he leaned down to kiss her. “Okay. I’m going back to the office. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything. Love you. So much.” 

“Love you too,” she murmured against his lips. “Now go. Find our boy.”  
______

It was 11pm and Neal was about half finished with the de Kooning. It was a much more complicated piece than the Ruscha, and the forgery needed to be better; good enough that the swap would not be noticed. It wouldn't be perfect, not with the original safely at the Harson Gallery, and Neal hated to concede to imperfection, but it would be good enough. Certainly good enough with Peter's attention elsewhere. 

Danny leaned in the doorway. “How’s it going?” 

“Hold it a little closer,” Neal said to Linus, who was standing beside the easel with a blow dryer and an extension cord. It was good to be working with oils again after the sticky, flaky mess of acrylics, but they were slow to dry. "Fine,” he added, to Danny. “At least it’s not pop art. De Kooning has some artistic merit in his relation to abstraction and figuratism."

“Is this really the most useful thing I could be doing right now?” Linus asked. 

“Rule one of putting together a team,” Danny said, holding up a finger, “find the best of the best, and then do what they say.” 

Neal swapped brushes as Linus grumbled. “I’m using as thin coats as I can get away with, and the hair dryer is helping but I can’t use drying agents while preserving the integrity of the forgery. It should be touch dry by tomorrow but anyone examining it in the next few weeks will spot it immediately.”

“They’ll have no reason to suspect a problem, as long as it looks right.” 

“Oh it’ll look right.” Neal smiled with all his teeth. “I’m the best of the best.” 

Danny grinned back with his lazy, movie-star brilliance that made marks and lovers fall over themselves for him. A good con could be one of two things: unmemorable or irresistible. Danny was an excellent con and he was not unmemorable. 

Neal dragged his eyes away from Danny’s smile and back to the canvas. “Rusty said you had originally planned a Loose Lizzy at Harson’s.” 

“Yeah, before your fed started sniffing around. We’ve added a Rolling Pass and a simple Newton to compensate.” 

Neal nodded. “You know about the external surveillance override?” 

“Yup. No problem.” 

“Sounds like you’re ready to go.” He wiped his brush and reached for his pallette. 

“As long as Burke is looking the other way.” 

“Don’t worry. He is.” The canvas smelled of linseed oil and turpentine. 

“I would be too, if I’d lost you,” Danny said softly. Neal glanced up from the paints long enough to catch Danny’s eye, and looked back at the paints. Linus shuffled his feet uncomfortably. There was a heavy silence filled with the very faint sound of the brush on the canvas. Neal was hiding a smile, aware of Danny’s gaze on the back of his neck. Then Danny pushed himself off the doorframe and said, “Get some rest if you need it.” 

“I could paint abstract expressionists in my sleep,” Neal said. 

“Then I’ll leave you to it. Linus, do whatever he says. You could learn a thing or two from Caffrey.” 

____

It was 9:13 in the morning and Peter was drinking his third cup of coffee. NYPD had responded the previous night to the location of the phone booth, but had found nothing. Neal had been long gone, and there had been no prints left. Slightly more fruitful had been the request for information from the traffic camera at the intersection. 

The camera took a photo every two minutes, and there were four photos from the short time Neal had spent at the corner by the phone booth. Two of them were of a car idling in a no parking zone. It belonged to a rental company, had been paid for in cash, and unsurprisingly had been returned and detailed by the time the police tracked it down. Nevermind that no normal business detailed cars in the middle of the night. 

Peter felt a shadow of the same thing he’d experienced chasing Neal the first time—the blood-thumping challenge of someone staying one step ahead of him. But before the feeling had been thrilling—now it was just sour and frightening, because Neal might be in danger. Or Neal had left. 

It was the last two pictures that Peter was pouring over, fingers furrowed in his hair. One showed Neal and the man from the party walking to the phone booth, both with their backs to the camera. 

The last photo showed the two of them inside the booth, mostly obscured by the flyers and graffiti adorning the glass windows. One of Neal’s hands was on the other man’s shoulder—impossible to know if he was pushing him away or pulling him closer. Their faces were tilted together. When Jones had handed him the print-outs, he’d shuffled his feet nervously and said, “It kinda looks like they’re making out, doesn’t it?” No matter how hard he stared at the photos, he couldn’t bring himself to disagree with Jones. 

It made something twist in Peter’s stomach, and he thought about El’s circumspect words last night. It would be okay if it were more than that. Talk to him. Had Neal run because he’d found someone else? A lover who could spring him from his anklet and embark on a life of crime and thrill?

"We've located Dalton, on Mozzie’s tip, and have surveillance on his warehouse," Diana said, putting down a stack of files on Peter's desk. 

Peter let out a heavy breath, pushing away his coffee and his dark thoughts, and flipped open the top folder. Mike Dalton was a balding, heavyset man; not the stranger who had been with Neal. "Warrant?" 

"Working on it. His priors help even though the tip is off the record." 

"If Neal is in there…" 

"I know boss. I can’t make the judge go any faster. No sign of Neal yet on our surveillance." 

Jones leaned in the door. "Boss, NYPD got report of a break in at the address you have flagged.” 

For a moment Peter was lost. “Which one?” 

“The one with the fancy party on the Upper East Side. Their alarm system was triggered at 8:48 am while Mr. Rosenthal was walking the dog and Mrs. Rosenthal was at water aerobics. ” 

Peter jolted to his feet. "Let's go."

______

Neal had finished the de Kooning at about 4 in the morning and promptly fallen asleep. He woke to midday sunlight streaming through the gap in the hotel curtains. The de Kooning was gone and so were Danny, Rusty and Linus. 

Neal ordered room service, and was just finishing some reasonably good escargot and a glass of Chardonnay when they got back, Danny and Rusty coming in together, Linus hauling a black duffel behind them. 

“Leave the equipment and go check in with Livingston,” Danny said, nodding to Linus. Linus dumped the bag by the minibar and left. So Livingston Dell was on the team. No wonder the tech had been so smooth through the whole operation. 

“Success?” Neal asked, unnecessarily.

Danny, looking excellent in a black turtleneck, grinned at him. “Like clockwork.” 

Rusty was tugging off his tie, a Red Vine hanging out of his mouth. “‘Cept the…” 

“Well, bound to happen.” 

“Reckless.”

Danny waved a hand dismissively. “Adaptive.” He picked up the bag of equipment and carried it into the other room. They could hear him clattering around through the wall.

Rusty snagged the glass of Chardonnay out of Neal’s hand, leaning his hip against the table beside Neal. 

“So,” Neal said. “The swap is done. My part is finished.” Rusty said nothing, just held Neal’s gaze. His eyes were glittering, mouth painted whore-red by the candy. “Unless…” Neal let his tone curl knowingly, “there’s something else you want from me.” 

“For old time’s sake,” Rusty said, and kissed him. Neal closed his hands around Rusty’s arms and pulled him closer, half on the table, half on Neal’s lap. His mouth was sugary and tart with wine. Neal rocked his hips up, trying to get friction as his cock hardened, pressing against the zipper of his slacks. 

The door clicked, making them both start. “Don’t stop on my account,” Danny drawled. Rusty made an urgent, needy noise into Neal’s mouth and lowered more of his weight onto Neal’s lap. Neal wrapped his arms around Rusty’s narrow waist and urged on the rolling motion of his hips, dragging their cocks together through their pants. 

When Rusty’s mouth was pulled away from his Neal blinked up to see Danny holding Rusty by his hair, and Rusty’s eyes almost closed in pleasure. “Impatient,” Danny murmured, giving Rusty a little shake. “Greedy.” Rusty whimpered, hips jolting against Neal’s. Danny’s lips curved in a smile. “I like to see you getting what you want.” Running his free hand down Neal chest, he popped his buttons expertly until his palm was resting on Neal’s belt buckle, a teasing pressure on his cock.“You want something else?” Danny asked. 

Rusty nodded and licked his lips with a flicker of red tongue. Neal let out an unsteady breath as Danny undid his belt and opened his pants. His strong fingers curled around Neal’s cock, but he didn’t stroke it, just pulled it out of his fly and held it steady at the base. Neal groaned, as much at the sight of Rusty opening his mouth hungrily with Danny’s hand fisted in his hair as at the wet suction around his cock. 

Unsurprisingly for someone who constantly had something in his mouth, Rusty sucked cock like he was starving for it. It was messy and skillful and hot. Danny made soft, encouraging noises, urging Rusty forward with the hand on his head. Gripping the seat of the chair, Neal tried not to thrust up into Rusty’s throat as Rusty took him deeper. 

Danny slid the hand holding the base of Neal’s cock down to cup his balls, and Neal spread his legs to give him more room, shoving his slacks down his thighs. He felt Danny’s finger, slick with Rusty’s spit, slide over his perineum and press against his hole. Neal made an embarrassing noise and arched as Danny pushed inside, pressing his cock further into Rusty’s mouth as Danny held him still. Neal felt his balls tightening as his orgasm rushed up suddenly. “I. I’m.” 

“Come for us,” Danny said, and Neal did, shouting as he spilled down Rusty’s throat. Rusty made a hungry noise and swallowed, the pressure intense around the head of his cock. When Danny pulled him off, spit gleamed on Rusty’s chin and his red, swollen lips. He had a hand between his legs, palming himself through his slacks. An aftershock shuddered through Neal, looking at him and Danny still holding him by the hair. His cock leaked another bit of come and Rusty darted his tongue out to lick it up.

“Naked. Bed,” Danny ordered, releasing Rusty, and they both scrambled to obey. 

______

Peter arrived at the Upper East Side address and barged past the NYPD officers milling around the townhouse. When he found the senior officer he flashed his badge. “Was anything taken?” 

“We’re still ascertaining. The Rosenthals say nothing immediately obvious. Jewelry collection and private safe undisturbed. No sign of forced entry, nothing on the security cameras, they must have been hacked. We’ve got our tech people looking at it.” 

“Any art stolen?”

“Apparently not. Normally I would say it was a false alarm, even, but these expensive systems don’t glitch like that. Maybe the alarm scared off whoever it was.” 

Peter narrowed his eyes. Look for my message, Neal had said. After watching the security tapes from the party a dozen times, Peter could walk through the rooms by memory. He traced the path Neal and his companion had taken two nights before, looking closely at the art on the walls. Mr. Rosenthal and the police sergeant trailed after him. 

In the living room, under display lighting above a mantle, was a bold painting of the word HONK in garish yellow. At the bottom right was the artist’s signature. Peter leaned closer. “What’s Ruscha’s first name?” 

“Edward,” said Mr. Rosenthal. 

Peter almost smiled. “Jones, call Diana. Get her to tell the judge we’ve got probable cause for the warrant if it hasn’t gone through already.” 

“Boss?” Jones asked. 

“This painting is signed N. C. Ruscha.” Behind Peter, Mr. Rosenthal made a scandalized sound. “I’d bet I know where the original is.” 

______

Afterward, Neal lay relaxed and drowsy with his head on Danny’s chest. There was the crinkling sound of a candy wrapper as Rusty fished a Mars Bar out of the bedside table. Neal ached pleasantly all over. Danny had fucked him hard on his hands and knees while Neal sucked Rusty’s cock, and Neal had come a second time, all over the bed, as Danny whispered filthy in his ear “You want to swallow his come, don’t you? Wish you could drink it down, hungry for it. Do it, Rus, give it to him.” They had used condoms, cautious of DNA traces, and Neal could still taste the latex in his mouth, but it was the roughness of Danny’s voice, his sure, commanding tone that sent Neal over the edge, clenching around Danny’s cock, until Danny groaned and finished inside him.

Eventually Neal peeled himself off the bed, starting to feel sticky rather than sated. He showered and put on a pair of Danny’s pajama silk pants—a man after his own taste. When he emerged from the bathroom, Danny was still sprawled out naked and Rusty was pouring drinks at the minibar. Neal let his eyes linger appreciatively on Danny’s body as Rusty handed him a gin and tonic. 

“I needed that,” Neal sighed, sitting gingerly on the bed.

“Been a while?” Rusty smirked. Neal just rolled his eyes and sipped his drink. “You know, I bet he would, if you wanted…” 

“Rus,” Danny said, stopping him. “So, Caffrey. We’ll get your cut of the take to Mozzie, like we agreed.” 

Neal nodded. There was no need to remind him to be discrete with the transfer. “Thanks.” 

Danny held his gaze, eyes intent. “You sure you want to go back? We could use someone like you on our team.” 

To join their team, to pull spectacular, impossible heists--the possibility was tempting, but it was the temptation of the crown jewels, the Mona Lisa; dreams that held their own destruction. The team was Danny and Rusty; everyone else, however important, was on the outside. Neal understood that. There was a dissatisfied ache in his chest when he thought about it too hard.

“I’m sure,” he said, the taste of gin harsh on his tongue. 

“I know,” Rusty said, with a small smile, and tipped his glass against Neal’s with a clink. 

Neal looked down at his own glass, half empty. “Oh, you fucker.” The room swayed gently. He was glad he was already sitting. “What if I’d said no?” 

“You didn’t.” 

“Rusty,” Danny scolded, but he sounded amused. Sitting up, he slipped an arm around Neal’s shoulders and helped him lie down. “It’s a shame, Caffrey. Your skills are wasted on Burke.” 

“Nah,” Neal managed, feeling sleepy and light. “We’re a team.” 

_______

Warrant acquired, they stormed Dalton’s warehouse, and found the stolen Ruscha along with half a dozen other pieces of dubious ownership, but no sign of Neal. Dalton was in cuffs and Peter was losing his cool. “Where is he?” he was shouting, and Dalton was swearing at him in a thick Jersey accent—“I don’t fucking know what the fuck you’re talking about”—when Peter’s phone rang. 

Another New York number. He gestured furiously to Diana to get a trace on it. “Hello?” 

“I’ve got something you want back,” said an unfamiliar man’s voice. 

“What do you want?” he asked, to keep the man talking. 

There was a sound like a muffled laugh. “Take care of him,” the man said, and the line went dead. 

Peter swore at his phone, and turned to Diana. “What have you got?” 

Her fingers flew over the laptop keys. “No time for a trace but the number is a land line from a hotel near Washington Park.” In the cruiser on the way there, Diana interrogated the concierge on the phone, and then turned to Peter. “Room 514 was signed out under the name Nick Halden this morning.” 

“What the fuck are they playing at?” Peter growled. 

Master key acquired from the front desk with a flash of his badge, Peter burst into room 514 ahead of his team and stopped dead. Neal was unconscious on the bed with his hands cuffed above his head, wearing nothing but a pair of silky pajama bottoms, hair rumpled and damp. The hotel room was newly cleaned, immaculate, bed neatly made; no sign of any activity, except for the red bite marks on Neal’s collar bone. In the part of his head not turning over in horrified trepidation, Peter was sure that there would be no prints or DNA anywhere. 

There was a handcuff key on the bedside table. Peter at least had the presence of mind to grab a tissue from the box beside it before he grabbed it. Neal groaned as he undid the cuffs, eyelids moving. He smelled like hotel shampoo, Peter thought, hazily realizing that he was kneeling on the bed close enough to smell him, one hand on Neal’s bare chest, feeling for his comfortingly steady heartbeat. 

Neal’s eyes fluttered open, brilliantly blue, pupils dilated. He blinked a few times and the corner of his mouth curled in a sweet smile. “Peter,” he sighed, and before Peter could draw back or say anything, Neal slid a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down into a kiss. 

His lips parted in surprise, and Neal’s tongue was in his mouth. Neal was alive and warm beneath him, making soft, hungry, happy sounds, and Peter kissed him back helplessly, feeling like something was trying to burst out of his chest. 

Footsteps pounded outside in the corridor, and Peter reared back, gasping for breath, just as Diana, Jones, and the rest of the team arrived. 

_______

Neal cooperated with the investigation, but there were a lot of things that never added up for Peter. But the tox screen supported that he'd actually been drugged, he provided sketches of the men he'd worked with, and he talked in depth about how he'd done the Ruscha.

After he'd been cleared, and several weeks after the Bureau had stopped talking about it, Peter asked Neal straight out one time as he was dropping him off at June's.

Neal looked inscrutable. "If I ran, why would I come back?" He got out of the car and then turned around and leaned back in the passenger window. "Are you going to come up?"

It was an obvious attempt at distraction, though Peter found himself willing to be distracted. Because after they had fallen into bed together, Neal didn't seem to want to run, and only curled closer to Peter in the bed.

It was some months after that, even, that El said, "Remember I'm doing Annalise's party Friday night."

Peter made a face. "Do I have to wear a tux?"

El nodded. "Bring Neal. He can appreciate Annalise's art collection."

"Appreciate," Peter snorted, but he did bring Neal, who was an excellent guest at almost any party. He talked to people all night with the same ease that El usually did--an ease that Peter himself didn't feel--and he made people laugh and smiled a lot.

Toward the end of the night, Peter spotted Neal again, looking at the Manet displayed in the entryway. He was staring at the painting and talking enthusiastically about it to another guest, moving his hands and gesturing. 

Peter watched him for a minute. Neal was acting like he did sometimes when he described the security flaws of someone's setup to Peter, all indignant enthusiasm about the weaknesses protecting something valuable, and the way Neal was talking made Peter look a second time at who Neal was talking to.

It was a white man, light hair, vaguely garish suit. He turned toward Neal, and smiled, and he had the same kind of glossy prettiness that Neal himself did. His smile was sly and amused.

He gestured toward the painting, and set Neal off again, with some second round of objections or something. 

Peter had a hunch. He was the right height. The right build. Neal looked at him in the right way. 

Peter walked over and placed a hand on Neal's shoulder, and was at least moderately relieved that Neal smiled at him widely, welcoming. 

"Neal," Peter said. "what are you doing?"

Neal made wide eyes. "El told me to talk to people at the party."

Neal's friend still had the sly smile on his face. Peter nodded at him. "Introduce me to your friend."

"Peter, this is--"

The man stuck out his hand. "Robert Lawson."

Peter shook it, keeping his other hand on Neal's shoulder. He made a mental note of the name to look it up later. His instinct to interrogate Mr. Lawson was interrupted by El leading over another man. 

"Peter, Neal--let me introduce Mr. Diaz--"

Mr. Diaz had dark hair, going grey, and another memorable smile. 

“We’ve met,” Neal said, smiling as he shook Mr. Diaz’s hand. The handshake held for just a little too long. When Peter shook his hand he gripped hard, trying to convey his displeasure. The man just looked amused. 

“He was telling me about the history of one of the Degas sculptures in the study,” El said, looking unnecessarily charmed. 

“I hope I wasn’t boring you,” Diaz smiled. “I hate to bore remarkable women like yourself.” 

Peter grimaced as El laughed. “Know something about art?” he said. 

“I dabble,” Diaz said modestly. 

“Oh Peter,” El said, gripping his arm. “There’s Annalise’s granddaughter. She’s about to leave, I have to introduce you before she goes. Excuse us for a moment.” 

Peter gritted his teeth as she dragged him away, leaving Neal with the two possibly-criminals. If he strained to hear, he could catch snatches of their conversation. 

“So you stayed in touch with Annalise,” Neal said, voice barely audible. 

“Yeah, she’s a sweetheart--” 

“--good taste in art,” Lawson interjected.

“--sends us a Christmas card,” Diaz finished. “You kept in touch, too?”

“Nope, El knows her somehow.” 

“Huh. Small world.” 

Annalise’s grandaughter said something and El elbowed Peter sharply. When he’d managed to respond and tune out again, he heard Lawson saying, “So, both of them.” Both of what? Peter wondered. 

Neal just shrugged and smiled enigmatically, the way he did when he had a secret but wasn’t trying hard to keep it. 

“You fox.” Diaz clapped him on the shoulder. “You look good.” 

“--better--” 

“--happy,” Diaz agreed. 

Neal said something Peter didn’t hear and all three of them laughed. 

Peter interrogated Neal, instead, when the event was over and they were back at their house. El was taking off her earrings and Peter had Neal on his back under him on the bed, which meant he could ask Neal questions and be sure Neal wasn't about to run away.

"Who were they? Lawson and Diaz?" Peter said, looking Neal in the eye. Neal was a very good liar, but sometimes there were tells.

"Just some guys," said Neal.

"Guys you know?"

"We've met," said Neal. 

"You've fucked?" said Peter. El looked over curiously.

"Are you jealous--" Neal started.

"Are you working some scheme with them?" said Peter.

"I didn't even know they’d be at the party," said Neal, which was not an answer.

"Neal, if you want out," Peter said. "You don't have to run--"

“I don’t want out.” Neal rolled his hips against Peter, and grinned suggestively. “I’m right where I want to be.” 

Peter tried not to let the tactic distract him, although it was difficult with Neal’s hardening cock pressed against his thigh. “You’d tell me, if--” 

Neal’s face softened subtly. "I don't want to run!" he said, and looked as sincere as Peter had ever seen him. 

"Tell me the truth," Peter said. "You could ditch the tracker if you wanted."

Neal looked shifty. "I'm wearing it," he said defensively.

"But you have a plan, right?"

Neal nodded reluctantly, his hair spread over Peter's pillow.

"You have to tell me, if you want to go," Peter said. "So that I don't worry--"

"I'm not going!"

El set a hand on Peter's shoulder. "Neal is here, with us."

"Are you still going to be here, with us, when you get the tracker off?"

Neal looked stubborn. "I said I’m staying. Are you going to keep asking me that for the rest of our lives?"

That brought Peter up short. “The rest of our lives?” he said, and El made a small sound, settling on the bed beside them. 

Neal rolled his head to the side to look at her. “Was he this stupid about you?” 

“Nearly.” 

“Hey,” Peter said. “It’s not unreasonable to be worried. Last time those guys showed up I spent a week looking at surveillance tapes, searching for you.”

“I called you!” 

That was not a reassuring phone call,” Peter said sternly. 

“That wasn’t my fault,” Neal muttered. 

“Do you two want to keep fighting, or did I put on my silk panties tonight for a reason?” El interrupted. Both of them snapped their attention to her. 

“Your wife’s a smart lady,” Neal said. “You should listen to her.”

Afterwards, they were curled on the bed with Neal in the middle, El’s head tucked against his chest, fingers playing over his nipple, Neal’s ass pressed against Peter’s groin, still sticky with lube. Peter still hadn’t gotten over seeing the two of them together, maybe never would. His chest ached at the thought of losing this. 

“Are you really going to stay?” he whispered into the back of Neal’s neck. 

“Are you ever gonna trust me?” Neal mumbled back. 

Peter could taste the sweat on Neal’s skin when he moved his lips. El found his forearm, slung over Neal’s stomach, and squeezed it. “I’m trying,” Peter murmured. 

“I’m trying to stay,” Neal said, sleepy and indistinct, and it was just enough of a prevarication that Peter believed him, completely.


End file.
